


Heart of Stone

by sendal



Series: I Will Wait for You [2]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alpha Phil Coulson, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mildly Dubious Consent, Omega Clint Barton, One day a happy ending maybe, Sandra writes fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 19:48:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sendal/pseuds/sendal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If an Omega patient doesn't list an Alpha upon admission, the hospital assigns a sex worker. Clint lists Phil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart of Stone

One vexing problem with shutting down a secret Hydra base is dealing with the resulting Hydra prisoners. SHIELD policy usually requires identification, rendition, and complicated negotiations or arrangements with foreign judicial systems, all of which is far above Phil Coulson's paygrade. It's nearly twelve hours into the Kansas op before Coulson ships the last prisoner off and is able to leave a skeleton crew to decommission the bunker. He is exhausted and dissatisfied, and keenly aware of the semen stains on his uniform. He smells like rutting. There’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

He goes up to the surface. The sky is lightening in the east, a thin strip of gold across the flat landscape that promises a hot summer day. Coulson could ask Agent Alvarez to drive them back to their hotel, but he wants to prove that he's more than capable. Under no circumstances should anyone suspect that his brain keeps jolting him with memories of Hawkeye's smell and his smooth, warm skin. 

"Sir?"

Coulson pulls his gaze from the windshield to Alverez, who is sitting in the passenger seat with a patient expression. 

"The engine works better if you turn it on," Alvarez says.

"Smart ass," Coulson replies. 

They are still forty minutes from Topeka when Coulson's phone rings. It's Thomas, who went on the medevac chopper to Fort Riley with their rescued Omega. (Not theirs, Coulson reminds himself. Not his. No one's.) 

"The doctors want his Alpha on scene," she says.

Coulson frowns. "Who's his Alpha?"

She lets her silence stretch on. In the background, noises of equipment beeping and a rattling cart.

"No," Coulson says. 

"He put your name on the admission form."

Coulson's indignation and blood pressure both rise so dangerously that he nearly goes off the road. Alvarez reaches over to steady the steering wheel. 

"I am not his Alpha," Coulson growls.

"Yes, sir." Thomas's tone is bland. "They want to talk to you here."

Alvarez is treated to a string of profanities that Coulson learned from a retired navy master chief in San Francisco. He is still swearing when they reach Fort Riley's front gate. Irwin Army Community Hospital is a large, modern building with a full parking lot even this early in the morning. Alvarez decides to stay in the van. Up in the Omega wing, Thomas is sitting in a small lounge with two cups of coffee and a creased copy of the Wall Street Journal. The ionizing air pumper keeps the smell of Omegas out of Coulson's awareness, but just barely.

"He's in room ten," Thomas says before Coulson can ask. "Hairline ankle fracture, dehydration, malnourished, concussion."

Coulson's indignation flees. He finds himself sitting down without actually deciding to do so. The chair is uncomfortable but he's grateful for the support. He thinks about Hawkeye curled underneath him, shuddering with pain but not bothering to mention that he couldn't see straight and that his ankle was broken. Goddamned, stupid idiot. 

"What else?" Coulson asks.

"He identified himself as Clint Barton, twenty-four years old, single. I ran a check. No missing persons report anywhere in the United States."

Clint Barton. A solid Midwest name. Coulson stares at the TV, where the muted morning news show is filled with pert, pretty reporters. 

"What home address did he give them?" 

She produces a piece of paper. "A transient hotel in Topeka. Hotspot for drugs and robberies, but he has no arrests. No military record, no college financial aid records. Didn't take the SAT. No driver's license on record anywhere. No credit rating, which is pretty rare. He's either been a drifter all his life or someone's deliberately kept him off the grid."

"Why were they interested in him?" Coulson asks, carefully omitting words like Hydra and kidnapping. 

"He's still not saying." Thomas finishes her coffee. "His doctor is Robert Michaelson. Good reputation, clean record. He'll be back soon."

He approves of her work. But he's too unsettled to acknowledge it. Coulson gives himself a full moment to center himself before going in search of room ten. Each room is private, with hardwood floors and shaded windows. Hawkeye's bed faces west. He's been cleaned up and dressed in a green hospital gown that doesn't do much for his complexion. The overhead light and TV are both off to let him sleep.

But he's not sleeping. His gaze is locked on the ceiling, which is bland and smooth. The tap-tap of his fingers on the bed rail belies his restlessness, and he's shifting his legs under the sheet as if he wants to run away. The cast on his ankle is lightweight but large. Under his gown he's erect again, no surprise there, and he smells irresistible. 

Coulson has no idea what to say. There's a strange, aching pain under his ribs that wasn't there a minute ago.

"Clint Barton," he says, trying the name on for size.

"Phil Coulson," is the reply he gets, flat and uninterested. He doesn't seem surprised or impressed that Coulson has walked into his room. They might as well be strangers who just happened to share an intimate experience during the night. Which, Coulson admits, is a pretty accurate assessment.

"You told them I was your Alpha," he says.

"Hospitals assign you an Alpha sex worker if you're unpaired," Clint answers, still looking at the ceiling. "You don't have to stay."

Coulson has no ready answer to that. He studies the saline bag hanging from the pole and snaking down to a catheter inserted in Clint's right arm. There's a sensor tapped to his right finger that measures his oxygen, pulse and blood pressure. The blood pressure numbers and pulse are both high. His temperature is one hundred and one but that's probably the natural side effect of a heat and not due to an infection. 

"What if your friends with guns come looking for you again?" Coulson asks.

Clint's pulse jumps. It's the knee jerk reaction of someone who's recently spent an unpleasant stretch of time in the company of unkind people, and the expression on his face reveals it. Coulson instinctively wraps one hand around Clint's warm left arm. The touch soothes them both like aloe on a sunburn, or maybe like the sudden surcease of pain after a sharp cut.

Coulson promises, "They won't get you," and tries not to let his tone reveal too much.

"I'm not – " Clint starts, and then shakes his head. His gaze darts toward Coulson and then back to the ceiling. "You're not in charge of protecting me."

"As it so happens, you're my responsibility."

Puzzlement, now, as Clint gives him a longer look. "But you're not really my Alpha."

"I meant professionally." Coulson catches himself stroking Clint's arm. His head is buzzing from fatigue and it's really better if he gives them both some space. But he's acutely aware of how nice Clint’s skin feels, how hot and alive and rinsed clean by hospital soap. He eyes Clint's erection. "Do you want me to . . . take care of anything?"

A headshake and petulant tone. "No. I'll do it."

Jerk himself off in this bland room rather than let Coulson or a sex worker help him. It says a lot about Clint Barton, none of it good.

Coulson shifts the conversation. "Can you tell me why took you?"

"I don't know."

It's a lie. Coulson's pretty sure. Mostly sure. But he can't figure out why he would hold back. Stockholm Syndrome? Protecting someone? The irrational part of his brain takes offense that there's someone in Clint's life that he wants to protect or keep secret despite the danger.

"We're in an army hospital full of vulnerable soldiers and innocent staff," Coulson says firmly. "I need to assess the security risk."

A grimace. "I told you. I don't know."

"You don't have the slightest suspicion?"

"Maybe they just wanted to fuck me, like you do."

Coulson bites down on a sigh. Clint's stomach grumbles loudly in the silence between them. 

"Did you eat breakfast?" Coulson asks.

"Hospital food sucks."

"I'll get you something from the cafeteria."

"I'm not hungry," Clint insists mulishly.

Coulson throws up his hands. "Are you always this stubborn?"

"What do you care?" Clint shoots back. "You're done. Go home. Go back to your asshole government job and leave me alone."

"Fine!" Coulson leaves the room. He has to stop in the bathroom to splash cold water on his face and regain his composure. Fuck Clint Barton with his Midwest name and beautiful blue eyes. There are reason he's alone in the world, no known family or friends, a shitty hotel the only place he can call home. Coulson doesn't know exactly what those reasons are, but he suspects Barton earned them by being bull-headed and contrary.

Back at the lounge, he orders Thomas to go meet Alvarez and for both of them to go back to Topeka.

"We can stay and back you up," Thomas says, clearly doubtful. 

"I don't need back-up. I need immunity from prosecution when I shoot him for being a jackass."

She tilts her head. "He's injured, and in heat, and we just got him out of a bad situation. You're complaining that he's not cheerful and appreciative?"

Coulson slumps in a chair. "I'm complaining that he's going out of his way to be difficult."

"As opposed to gratefully falling into your arms," she says, clearly unimpressed.

He pauses. Re-evaluates. It's entirely possible that Clint's antagonism is an offshoot of being tired, hurt, and recently rescued. Or it could be a deliberate ploy to drive Coulson away.

"Go get some rest," Coulson said. "I'll call you if I need anything."

After Thomas leaves, Coulson has a short, awkward conversation with his regional coordinator about why, exactly, he must stay at the hospital and not delegate babysitting duty to anyone else.

"You're not going soft on this Omega, are you?" the coordinator asks.

"No, sir."

"He could become a liability."

"I wouldn't let that happen."

He promises to follow up with all of the requisite forms he needs in order to stay for another day or two. He's blearily staring at his secure email when he feels a sharp spike of anxiety.

His career can't afford distractions like this.

Clint Barton is a stubborn son of a bitch who is not his Omega.

What the hell is he doing to himself?

He leans his head back against the wall and breathes steadily through his nose to try and calm himself. Footsteps snap him upright. Dr. Michaelson is a tall black man with gray hair and rimless eyeglasses, his gaze judgmental.

"You should be with your Omega," he says without preamble.

Coulson bites down a denial. "When can he leave, doctor?"

"When his blood pressure goes down, he's steady on crutches, and can keep down a meal."

"He's been sick?"

Michaelson consults a paper file. "Breakfast was a disaster. He says it's not unusual for his heats."

The last is followed by raised eyebrows, as if Coulson should know this. And he would know it, if he were Clint's Alpha. Which he isn't. Which he will never be.

Coulson doesn't break eye contact. Steadily he says, "We haven't known each other that long. How can I help him?"

"You can be with him," Michaelson says again. "Close the door and rut. No one's going to bother you if the privacy light's on."

A sharp beeping from his pager sends the doctor toward the nurse's station without any more updates, information or advice. Coulson thinks about the food situation and wonders if the hospital has a library stocked with Omega pamphlets. He knows exactly what he needs to work with the Omegas at SHIELD, including emergency medical treatment options, but there was never any briefing on fragile stomachs, hostile Omegas, and the general clusterfuck this is.

He goes down to the hospital cafeteria and buys chocolate milk, a glazed doughnut, a vanilla ice cream cup, a fruit bowl wrapped in plastic, a bag of potato chips, a tuna sandwich that hasn't expired yet, and a large bottle of water. He has no idea if any of it will appeal. When he gets back to Clint's room, he sees that Clint is sitting up in bed with his feet swung over the side. His hands are gripping the mattress and he looks faintly green.

"Where are you going?" Coulson asks as he sets the food down on the side table.

"Nowhere," Clint says automatically. He frowns at the food. "What's that for?"

"The doctor says you need to keep a meal down before you can be discharged."

"He shouldn't have told you that."

"Listing me as your Alpha gave me access to your medical information."

Clint tugs at the IV pole and monitors. "I have to piss."

"A bedpan – " Coulson says, and looks around.

"I can do it," Clint insists, pulling on the equipment. "Where's the crutches?"

He's grim and stubborn and Coulson decides it's better to help him than try to stop him. He slides a crutch under Clint's shoulder and helps him upright. The brush of skin on skin makes both of them shiver. Clint lurches into him and ends up shuddering into Coulson's side, his nose buried against Coulson's shoulder. 

"You smell amazing," Clint says, muffled.

"You smell pretty good yourself," Coulson admits, supporting most of Clint's weight. They're awkwardly perched against the side of the bed and the door's wide open but Coulson can't help kissing the side of Clint's head, and then his warm bare cheek, and then the corner of his closed eyes. Each kiss is a tiny promise Coulson can't keep, but he feels hypnotized by Clint's body in a way he's definitely never experienced before. 

An orderly passes in the hall with a noisy cart that ruins the moment. Clint's hands find Coulson's shoulders and he pushes himself away a few inches. "Bathroom before I piss myself," he says hoarsely.

It takes teamwork and some cursing to maneuver Clint to the bathroom, which is wide and spacious and spotlessly clean. Coulson doesn't hold his dick for him but he hovers closely, ready to catch him if his precarious hold on the crutches fails. Clint doesn't complain about the lack of privacy the way a spoiled civilian might. They only get halfway back to the bed before Clint's knees go out. Coulson's ready for it, and he cushions him before he can slam into the unforgiving floor.

"Got dizzy," Clint mutters into Coulson's shoulder again.

Coulson wishes he didn't feel so happy to have an armful of handsome young Omega. "I'll call for help."

But he doesn't call, doesn't move, because Clint moves his face up to lick at the side of Coulson's neck, to suck a small kiss under his ear. Coulson shivers at the exquisite tingle. 

"You should be in bed," Coulson offers.

"Not alone," Clint says, his voice like broken glass. "Too alone."

The room has a futon sofa that folds out flat for overnight visitors or rutting partners. Coulson untangles himself enough to get it extended. He grabs a blanket from the bed and two pillows. The privacy light is a green switch by the door, which Coulson makes sure is fully closed. Getting Clint up to it is hard because of the cast, the IV and the monitor still taped to his finger, but after some shifting around they're laying together with Coulson's pants down and Clint's gown loosened. It's much more comfortable than the floor of the Hydra clinic.

"I'm going to suck you now," Coulson says, half request and half announcement.

Clint's fingers pull on Phil's hair. "Hell, yes."

After only a moment or two - a blissful, lovely moment - Coulson's attention is snagged by an annoying beeping noise. He lifts his head and glares at the heart monitor, which is going crazy. If the privacy light isn't enough of an announcement, the nurses now know exactly what they are doing.

"Fuck that," he growls, and pulls off the sensor taped to Clint's finger.

Clint shakes as he does it. Not with pain or ecstasy, Coulson realizes. With laughter.

"Shut up," Coulson says, and finishes what he started. Then he kisses Clint on the mouth, long and sweet. When he pulls back, Clint is staring at him with wide eyes.

"You don't have to do that," Clint says breathlessly. "I don't need tenderness."

"I'll be the judge of that," Coulson replies steadily.

Clint's gaze narrows. Before he can say anything, Coulson kisses him again and rolls him to his side. The joining is fast, slick, and mostly wordless. Clint actually seems to enjoy Coulson's touch, which is good because Coulson touches every part he can – the flat planes of his stomach, the hard muscles in his thighs, the delicious curve of his ass. Once knotted, Clint goes limp. His panting and whimpers gradually eases off. Coulson's vision is a little blurry as he inhales the scent of Clint's hair and revels in the tight, hot clenching around his cock. They're wedged together with Coulson's back to the wall and Clint locked against him. 

Clint shifts uncomfortably.

"You okay?" Coulson asks.

"Yeah."

Coulson kisses his shoulder. It's a nice shoulder, muscular and toned. "You don't sound it."

A long pause. "This is my least favorite part."

Coulson has had at least a dozen partners in his life, but never one who'd expressed dislike of the knotting. "Why?"

"You try it sometime." Clint shifts again. "Let me know."

Coulson doesn't talk, because he doesn't want to sound trite or condescending. He thought all Omegas were hardwired to like being knotted. He's never heard any of them complain. Then again, they hadn't been forced into coupling with Coulson for medical exigency. He feels dirty again, guilty for taking advantage of the situation.

Clint rubs his face. "I'm hungry."

"Bad timing," Coulson observes, because the food tray is on the other side of the room.

"Story of my life," Clint says glumly.

"Anything I can do to make it easier?" Coulson asks, a little hesitant.

The hospital room is quiet but outside the door there are passing voices, a beeping noise, a muffled announcement on the hospital intercom.

"I guess you can do that thing you were doing," Clint replies.

Coulson isn't exactly sure which thing Clint means. He settles for stroking his shoulder and upper arm. Clint makes a pleased sound and then dozes off, stirring now and then but quieting under soft kisses. Coulson doesn't understand the mixed emotions in his chest. He can't do this. Can't get attached, can't get invested, can't think about getting Clint out of here and back to New York and making some kind of future together. 

But all he wants – inexplicably, irrationally, illogically – is to do this again with Clint. Somewhere with a luxurious bed, absolute privacy, and all the time in the world.

After Coulson's able to withdraw, he gets a warm cloth from the bathroom and cleans both of them up. Clint limps on the crutches back to the hospital bed and lets Coulson untangle the tubes and wires. He's quiet and flushed and adorable, if Coulson stops to think about it. Which he doesn't. Clint quietly eats half the tuna sandwich and drinks several sips of water. His gaze is fixed at the window and the world outside until he lies down again.

"You should go," Clint says, his eyes closed and head turned on the pillow. 

This is it. Coulson's chance to escape.

He sits on the bedside chair and rests his hand on Clint's arm. "I know."

But he doesn't move, doesn't leave.

The end

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for all the lovely notes on part 1 of this series. I hope to keep going. Titles from Mumford and Sons. All feedback appreciated.


End file.
